A week before I joined the Blue Marble Ice Cream and Frozen Yogurt team, the price of a single scoop skyrocketed from 5 to 6 dollars. This one dollar discrepancy was met with undiluted outrage. On the table next to the cashier, hidden from the eyes of prying customers, is a post-it note entitled, “Reactions to $6 scoops.” Written below is a greatest hits of customer protests, ranging from, “*angry mutters in French*” to, “Not your momma’s Carvel!”
With raised prices comes heightened responsibility. Each order must be 100% satisfactory. It must be met with widened eyes and a knowing smile. Or else. I cringe when I think of my first attempt, and look back on it with equal parts nostalgia and mortification. The cherry chocolate chip was lumpy and misshapen, trickling down the edges of the cone as if crying over its deformity. “You will never succeed in scooping,” it whispered to me, “Go back to the camp counselor job where you belong.” I handed it over with extra napkins, shame, and an obligatory “I’m so sorry.” As the customer left wiping her sticky hands, I went into full panic mode. What had I done? What if she never came back? Or worse, what if she left a bad Yelp review? “One star -- scoop was not spherical. Avoid!” I was horrified. I had single handedly ruined the reputation of my ice cream parlour, and with my first scoop! I vowed to improve.
Following my failed first attempt, I consulted an expert. Heather Glenny had worked at Ben & Jerry’s for eight years before she transferred to the Blue Marble team. She had joined only two weeks before I, but had the confidence of a decorated ice cream veteran. I watched in awe as she molded perfect scoops in graceful, swift motions. Her skills were unmatched; I envied her greatly.
Generous in portions and in spirit, Heather took me under her impressive forearms wing and told me the two keys to scooping perfection. First, scoop around the edges of the tub. This is where the softer, more malleable ice cream resides. Second, use your whole body for strength. Give it your all and do not rely on your wrists. Wrist use is not only painful, but hazardous. The number one risk in ice cream scooping is carpal tunnel syndrome. This threat is warned about within the ice cream community with the same cautionary intensity as your mother warning you to stop rolling your eyes at her otherwise, “They’ll stay like that forever!”
Knowing I was in possession of the Ice Cream Ten Commandments, (“Number 7: thou shall always inquire: sprinkles?”) I perfected the technique of my newly-divine scoops. In the lull before the much anticipated post-dinner rush, as my fellow workers checked their phones and chatted about the latest episode of The Bachelorette, I hunched over a tub of Mint Cocoa and Cookies. Elbows straight. Forearms flexed. Gliding, releasing, and catching the ice cream to create layers like a snowball. Slowly, the airy, misshapen lumps became something else completely.
Everyday during the 5-7pm lull, I practiced my scoops. The ice cream came to resemble more of a peach and less of a mound of gloopy oatmeal. After a few days, I was proud to present my scoops on a pretzel cone dipped in rainbow sprinkles and drizzled with hot fudge. As the first of the post-dinner rush trickled in, bringing with it the humid summer air, I stood tall, head up, scooper in hand. I was ready for whatever was to come.